


Breaklights

by CKBookish



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [20]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batmanbingo 2020, Gen, Get the tissues this one is sad folks, If you blink you miss it but just to be safe, Jason is dead in this one, Suicidal Thoughts, We all know he doesn't stay that way but..., but like it's jason soo..., but not exactly more idealization, canon character death, crowbar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CKBookish/pseuds/CKBookish
Summary: Well buckle up folks, this is going to be a bumpy night.Batman Bingo 2020: Crowbar.As always I love to hear from you all.  And I would like to apologize in advance.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne and Grief, Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590904
Comments: 26
Kudos: 119





	Breaklights

**Author's Note:**

> Well buckle up folks, this is going to be a bumpy night.
> 
> Batman Bingo 2020: Crowbar. 
> 
> As always I love to hear from you all. And I would like to apologize in advance.

I broke you.

And that broke me.

The worst part is I can’t seem to stop.

* * *

The mail fell to the ground and the paper smacked the tiles hard. The sound in reality couldn’t have been all that loud, but it seemed to echo around the entryway. Bruce didn’t look at the dropped bills and the invitation to a fundraiser for the new Gotham women’s shelter. He was too fixated on the small stamp with the queen of England's head on it. Wolverhampton. 

The large envelope was far heavier then it should have been. Bruce could feel bile crawling up his throat. 

He had forgotten. 

How had he forgotten? 

How had the school failed to notify the exchange program. The paper envelope creased and crumpled as his fist closed around it. He would be leaving in a month. He should be leaving in a month. He _should_ be here to tear the envelope from his hands excitedly. He should be telling him about what museums he would be going to. 

Bruce remembered Jason had wanted to go to the Lake District, something about a village near where Beatrix Potter had lived. He was supposed to go to Chatsworth, and see Chawton, the home of Jane Austen. Jason had been so excited about it. 

Bruce slowly peeled back the fold that sealed the packet. The glue tore the paper and it split at odd angles as Bruce pried it apart. The sound of paper ripping filled the silent hall. The only sound to match it was the muffled tic tic toc of a mantle clock on the wall opposite the stairs. 

He slowly slid out the materials tucked inside. There was a book filled with National Trust properties. Bruce flicked through it. There were several pages highlighted. Bruce recognized a few. They were places on the itinerary that Jason had so often recited to him. 

Bruce’s hands shook. There was a brochure with pictures of the dormitories. The lines of beds were neatly stacked with duvets and pillows in the picture. Bruce could imagine Jason in the room holding a pillow aloft as he fought some faceless boy with it. Bruce wondered if the laughter he imagined in the hall was really a ghost. He had always felt dogged by the spirits of his parents. This-- this was far worse. 

Bruce’s hand continued to shake as he pulled out the final item. A letter. 

_Dear Mr. Todd-Wayne,_

_We are pleased to confirm your term with us at Wolverhampton’s College for English Education, and Literary History. We look forward to seeing you on September 12. Please note that we have not received your confirmation email, we look forward to hearing from you. Please call us if you--_

Bruce crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it with all his might at the clock, still counting out every second that Bruce was without his son. Why wouldn't it _just_ stop? Why wouldn’t the world _stop_? 

His feet were moving faster than his mind. 

“Sir, I was--”

Bruce walked past Alfred without a backward glance. He couldn’t talk to him right now. All Bruce would do if he opened his mouth was scream. Alfred didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of Bruce’s anger. He had already seen and felt too much of it. Bruce wasn’t sure where he was going. He just wanted to move, to go, to be anywhere but… That wasn’t true. He rather wanted to be anything but him. The place didn’t actually matter at all; he would still be him no matter where he went. 

Bruce slammed the garage door behind him and felt an odd satisfaction when the tools hanging on the wall rattled. The long row of cars seemed so worthless. He would happily trade them. He would trade his home, his company, the cave, Batman, his own life, if it meant that Jason would be back. Bruce grabbed a tool off the wall not paying attention to what it was, and threw it as hard and far as he could. It bounced off the hood of a Mercedes-Benz. 

It wasn’t enough.

He reached for another, and another. 

Soon he was pulling the drawers of tools out from the toolboxes that lined the walls. He snatched one after the other, letting each weight and shape register briefly before he threw it. Glass and metal broke and dented. He was wrecking thousands of dollars worth of equipment and vehicles, but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to care. None of it was worth anything, none of it could bring back Jason. 

The drawers ran out of tools he moved to his work bench. He broke saw blades and threw a box of nails. Drill bits were littering the floor. His eyes fell on an old and slightly rusted crowbar. Bruce felt something burn inside of him. He had memorized the autopsy report. The most likely weapon that had been used to beat Jason had been described as a crowbar like tool. Bruce pulled it from the wall. 

His hands weren’t shaking now. He was too filled with rage and pain. With the cold metal gripped hard in his hand, he swung. The tail light of a Cadillac shattered. Red safety glass flew in every direction. Bruce drew back to swing again. 

The door to the garage flung open. Bruce didn’t turn. 

“B! No!” 

Dick was moving fast, but Bruce was too enraged to care. He smashed the crowbar into the windshield. 

Dick’s arms were around his middle, pulling him back and away from the car. Unable to hit it, Bruce threw the crowbar, the web cracks he had already created in the glass expanded as it made contact with the car. 

Bruce, still filled with hurt and fury, stopped struggling as Dick pulled him back and away from the cars and glass. Bruce glanced down at the ground, anything to avoid looking at Dick’s face, the boy’s chin tucked over Bruce’s shoulder as he continued to pull Bruce back and away from the havoc he had wrought. The ground was filled with crystal like shards. Bruce blinked there was… was that blood? He felt his chest lurch. Dick’s feet were bleeding. He had run out without his shoes. His bare feet had tread on the shards of glass and plastic on the ground. Bruce’s vision swam. 

* * *

Jason stood surrounded by glass. Bruce found him frozen and barefoot. When Jason noticed him he turned beat red. 

“I didn’t mean to.” Jason’s voice was so small, Bruce wondered how he was so tall. 

“It’s okay. Just don’t move.” Bruce walked slowly over the glass so as not to kick it towards Jason’s exposed toes. 

“I just…” Jason was looking hopelessly around at the ruined car. 

“It’s fine. Just let me get you.” Bruce picked him up and away from the sharp shards laying everywhere. 

Jason didn’t fight Bruce’s hold. In fact he seemed resigned to it. “I just wanted to sit in the seat, I didn't mean to move it.”

“It’s okay, Jason.”

“It just started rolling and I didn’t know what to do.”

“It was in neutral, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have left it that way.” Bruce wondered how he had forgotten to put the car into park before he walked away from it. It likely was due to the phone call he had had from Barry Allen. He had been hoping for news of Dick. But it had only been a question for a case. Little but hopeful news of his estranged... ex-partner-- Bruce shuttered at the word-- could distract him from so simple a task. 

He was changing the oil on the old car and had it half raised on ramps, so Jason would have only had to have bumped it to send it rolling back into the tool box. 

“Are you going to send me away?” 

Bruce stopped walking, as if he hit a wall. “Jason, no. I told you it's not your--”

“I--” Jason’s voice broke. “I break everything.”

* * *

Dick swore lightly in his ear, pulling Bruce back to himself. For the first time He took a look around the room. The damage reflected before him was but a fraction of that in his chest. 

“It won’t help.” Dick said lightly as he pulled Bruce around to face him. Dick was looking him up and down with sad eyes.

“It won’t hurt, either.” Bruce’s voice sounded hollow. But then he was, he thought. He had been scoped out and left some sick shell. Jason hadn’t just taken his soul with him when he left. He looked at the now ruined windshield of the very car Jason had once damaged. He wished he had never fixed it. He wished he had left it dented and broken the first time. 

Jason had been wrong, it was Bruce who broke everything. He left the car in neutral, he let Jason look for his mother, He let Jason die. Bruce was the one with cursed hands. 

“I hate it.” Bruce said to no one and everyone. 

Dick blinked. “The car?”

“Yes. No.” Bruce wasn’t sure. He did hate the car, but that wasn’t all. He hated the sky, the earth, the very air.

After a moment, Bruce nodded at Dick’s feet. “We should--” This throat felt thick suddenly. 

Dick bit his lip, but didn’t say anything. After a moment he pulled Bruce into the house and down the hallway. Alfred was standing in the hallway where Bruce had left him earlier. It was as if he was too afraid to come nearer. 

Bruce felt a surge of guilt and shame. Not for the damage done to the property, but the one done to his oldest friend, his almost father, and that done to his would be son-- if he had ever had the guts to ask. 

Dick pushed Bruce onto the toilet and began rummaging in the medicine cabinet. Bruce eyed Dick nervously. He needed to look at his feet. What was he doing? Bruce started to stand.

“Sit.” Dick’s voice allowed no room for disobedience. 

“What are you--” Bruce started, but then a thick hot something dripped into his eye. He blinked rapidly to halt the liquid from getting past his eyelashes. 

Dick threw a wash cloth at him and Bruce caught it up and hurriedly wiped his eye. By the time he pulled the cloth away, Dick was in front of him again. 

Bruce felt his heart-- well what was left of it-- constrict painfully. There were new worry lines around Dick’s eyes that hadn’t been there a few months ago. Bruce wondered how much of it was caused by grief, and how much caused from worrying about him. 

Dick was more gentle than Bruce deserved. He cleaned and bandaged the various cuts and scrapes Bruce had received from the shrapnel that he hadn’t noticed raining down around him. 

“Bruce. I need you to stop.” Dick said finally as he laid down the gauze. 

Bruce stiffened, but didn’t speak. 

“This… This isn’t--” Dick turned around so that he wasn’t looking at Bruce anymore. He leaned forward on the counter, his palms pressing hard into the granite. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

Bruce felt his heart skip. He didn’t-- he _wouldn’t._ Dick should know better.

“You’re reckless when you’re out. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. _I’m_ barely holding myself together, Alfred is stretched too thin, and _Tim_. You know he’s still running around Gotham after you, right? That kid is going to die trying to keep you from… from losing your mind.” Dick turned to face him and Bruce really looked at him. Dick’s eyes were wild and desperate. 

It wasn’t an expression he recognized on his so-- on Dick’s face. It would have fit on a prisoner or perhaps a refugee. It was desperate and filled with a pain that shouldn’t be endured. 

Bruce felt his hairs stand on end. He was partly responsible for putting it there. He was the-- if not parent at least mentor-- it was his job to make sure Dick was okay, not the other way around. 

“I can’t do it, B.” Dick’s voice cracked. “If you-- I can’t do it by myself.”

Bruce stood slowly, his body felt so heavy. Perhaps it was the grief that weighed him down. “I’m sorry. I’ll-- I’ll try.”

Dick looked up at him, his eyes were so wide, Bruce wondered if Dick really believed him. 

“I just--” Bruce broke off suddenly aware of the tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

“I miss him too.” Dick said softly. 

The small bathroom suddenly seemed devoid of air. Bruce wanted to run. He wanted to get away, to see anything but the plain white tiles that decorated his worthless walls. 

Dick must have noticed the sudden change in Bruce’s temperament for he sighed and stepped back. Bruce hesitated a moment eyeing Dick’s still slightly bleeding foot, but Dick just waved his hand dismissively. It was cowardly but he turned away. 

Dick just hopped up on the counter and began to inspect his own wound. Bruce knew he was being weak. Dick needed him, but Bruce didn’t think he could muster enough of himself together to do it. 

Dick glanced up at Bruce hovering still by the doorway. 

“It’s fine. Go.” Dick might have been lying but Bruce took the out.

He didn’t know how to express how grateful he was for Dick Grayson’s perfect understanding in that moment. Bruce slipped back into the hall. Alfred wasn’t still frozen there, Bruce wasn’t sure where the man had slipped away to. He hoped wherever it was, it was calm. Alfred deserved a calm life. It was what he had moved to Gotham for in the first place: calm. 

The irony of Alfred’s choice and subsequent conscience didn’t escape him. 

Bruce moved through the house like a ghost. His feet made no sound on the floor, and he radiated no warmth. Maybe he was dead. That would be okay, he thought. But for Dick, Bruce wouldn’t leave him again. He had promised. 

The walk to the back plot was short. Bruce was over the hill that blocked it from the house’s view and pushing through the gate before he knew it. Jason’s stone was white and tall. Bruce didn’t think the marble really reflected the soul it represented. The white was too cold and sterile. Jason had been warm and filled with life. When they had ordered the marker for the grave, Bruce refused to pick so Alfred had chosen it The inscription, the design even the font had been carefully selected by the butler. Bruce didn’t begrudge Alfred’s choices, he knew nothing would have satisfied him. 

But still the white marble with black veins running through it felt wrong. Perhaps he would ask Alfred to order a warmer looking stone for the permanent marker. But then was there such a thing? 

Bruce sank down on the still slightly uneven ground. 

His stomach churned as his mind supplied: the earth was still settling. Four months. He had lived without his son for four months. It felt like forty years. He lay down so that his head lay just above where Jason’s would be. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it was the other way around. That it was Jason laying above him. That Jason could see the sky and hear the birds. 

Bruce closed his eyes and turned his nose into the dirt. If he closed his eyes it would be like he was the one underneath the soil and not his son. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about that. You know that scene in Harry Potter where he wishes he was under the snow in a grave with his parents.... Yeah I think about that a lot. 
> 
> Sorry Bruce.


End file.
